


A REAL Man

by GizmoTrinket



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crack, Hunters & Hunting, Implied/Referenced Abuse, M/M, Sherlock is a Size Queen, the author has anger
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-16
Updated: 2018-08-16
Packaged: 2019-06-28 11:12:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15706074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GizmoTrinket/pseuds/GizmoTrinket
Summary: "John Hamish Watson, the manliest man ever to exist." -This FicThis happened after I hadn't slept for 24 hours.





	A REAL Man

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CumberCurlyGirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CumberCurlyGirl/gifts).



> This is dedicated to everyone who has ever gotten a comment complaining that John isn’t manly/big enough in their fics.
> 
> Beta'd by the best beta on Earth: @AelishLuna on Twitter Who fought me on just how much of a bad fic it was allowed to be.

Camping. Sherlock hated it. He couldn’t stand to go more than a day without a shower and he hadn’t been able to bring his suits and all his hair products, not with all the curlers he needed. He couldn’t be caught in the wilderness in anything but his best.

And the barrel of lube. He’d seen it on Amazon Prime Day and had known it’d come in handy. He was always prepared for everything, twelve steps ahead of everyone. He’d deduced that John had a cock larger than a tyre iron. It had to have gone down to his knee. Sherlock wanted to be split in half. He want to cry when he lost his virginity to a real man. He needed to feel it. And though John was short, John had saved his life in more ways than one. 

Sherlock blushed at the thought of sex. He hadn’t ever seen a cock in real life. He’d always kept his eyes up during his days at his exclusive private school. Sure, the dead bodies he examined had genitals but they were no different than the dildos he occasionally ran across in loose women’s bedside drawers. Completely inanimate. Still, they were upsetting. He nearly fainted when he saw one shaped like a tentacle.

John set up the tent and smiled at Sherlock.

Sherlock treasured the smile and at the same time he felt uncomfortable. Real men didn’t smile like that. Like they had soft edges. Sherlock was glad John had grown the beard. It made him more manly.

John started chopping firewood and Sherlock blushed and looked through his lashes at John’s strong muscles rippling and glistening with sweat. His arms were tan and his biceps were the size of Sherlock’s tiny torso.

Sherlock was rather proud of his figure; he barely ate and made sure when he did eat he only nibbled on salads. He also did it so he didn’t get too muscular himself - he needed to be dainty to be attractive to real men. No protein meant he couldn’t properly build muscle.

Of course, his diet also made him a bit anemic and he swooned when John got frustrated with the axe and started ripping logs in half with his arms, splinters flying outward.

If only John’s hands weren’t so small - it rather ruined the effect.

John caught him mid-swoon, of course, and fanned him.

Sherlock looked into those deep blue eyes and blushed when he realized he wouldn’t have anemia anymore; he’d spend his days drinking semen as John shoved his monster cock down his throat and used him as a real man should. Sure, semen didn’t usually contain iron, but John was a man, he was different than all those  _ boys  _ they’d tested.

He shuddered delicately - the thought of being used was scary but he was determined.

Suddenly, a bear ran into camp, probably lured by the herd of deer John had shot. He’d averaged two deer per bullet, but what had really made Sherlock wet was when he’d put a spin on the bullet and killed five, using the skulls as ricochet points.

And, like a real man, he’d made sure that none survived. There’d be no Bambis today.

The bear wasn’t interested in the deer, though.  It could smell the adrenaline stemming from Sherlock’s fear of it, and not even John’s manliness could distract the bear from the tasty morsel that was Sherlock.

Sherlock started crying. Why hadn’t the bear fled? John was right there!

Thank God John was there! He leapt into action, grabbed the bear by the jaws just as he’d been about to bite Sherlock, and yanked.

Sherlock blinked through the tears, watching his saviour wrestle the horrifying beast. The bear was frothing at the mouth now, it was clearly rabid!

Sherlock cried out a warning, but it distracted John; he’d been fighting the overgrown grizzly but he was worried most about Sherlock’s safety.

“No!” Sherlock wept when the bear swiped and ripped John’s trousers and pants away.

With shaking legs Sherlock ran for John’s gun. He knew that the bullets were basically useless against a bear. Sure, they’d kill it eventually but not in time to save John.

Still, he had to try! He couldn’t give up!

There was only one bullet left. John had used them all while he was hunting. If only he hadn’t shot those wolves!

With a sob Sherlock aimed the weapon. He wasn’t a good shot. He’d only pretended to shoot the smiley face at the flat. He’d never have done anything that might endanger the neighbors. Even his violin was put down when he deduced the married ones were going to sleep so as to not annoy them. The holes were made with squibs, small explosive charges that were easily hidden and used frequently in Hollywood.

Sherlock shook his head and took a deep breath. He was forty. He could do this. He could save John for once. For real this time. When he’d jumped he’d planned on telling John immediately but Mycroft had drugged him and used his god-like powers to prevent Sherlock from contacting him. And once he came back John had Mary. He couldn’t tell him the truth. So, he selflessly lied so John could move on and be with the person he really loved.

Because, like a real man, John wasn’t gay.

But Sherlock had been weak - he couldn’t save Mary. Her superhuman speed (caused by her love for him and John) and angelic selflessness had allowed her to save Sherlock’s life. As much as Sherlock did good things he didn’t hold a torch to Mary. She didn’t even have a dark past; her assassin days were for good, and she was a literal angel sent to Earth. And even though she married John she knew that John needed Sherlock, loved Sherlock, had been destined to be with Sherlock (completely platonically, of course) and so she saved him before ascending. (Since she was an angel there was no body for John to hold a funeral.)

John had beat Sherlock in a morgue while Sherlock was high. Sherlock’s drug use was completely necessary once he’d arrived at the hospital, even though John was already there and had shown no intention of leaving. 

Because, Sherlock had known that John needed to beat him so he could move on. Sure, a real man drowned his sorrow in alcohol and John had done so. But he was more manly than the top shelf scotch could cope with and his penance for being weak and useless was to be John’s punching bag. He expected to be beaten for the rest of his life, because real men weren’t abusive, they just had tempers. 

Then--after the incident at the morgue--John had a revelation: he wasn’t gay, he was straight with an exception! Sherlock might have been born the wrong gender for his soulmate but John had decided to look past Sherlock’s tiny cock, as long as it stayed unobtrusive.

Sherlock knew, if he could save John, the adrenaline would drive John mad and he’d ravish Sherlock. Uncaring if Sherlock cried, he’d ruthlessly pleasure him, over and over until Sherlock came untouched twenty times, until the pain cum pleasure caused him to pass out.

Then he’d wake up with John’s come leaking out of his brutalized arsehole, his every movement painful - he wouldn’t be able to sit for weeks. And John would still be hard - one orgasm wouldn’t be satisfying. And Sherlock would suck him off, expertly deepthroating him in one swallow, John’s massive cock pressing against the  sphincter  to Sherlock’s stomach. It’d take hours but eventually he’d come down Sherlock’s creamy pale throat and fill his stomach with so much come that it distended, despite coming mere minutes before. Sherlock would choke, because John would grow in size, and even though Sherlock had no gag reflex despite having no training to get rid of it (Why would he need to? He was a virgin, he had planned to stay pure for his entire life, he hadn’t even had  _ urges _ before John) they were soulmates - they were meant for each other - so of course everything fit perfectly. The feeling of John coming down his throat would cause Sherlock to orgasm again and he’d cry in ecstasy. 

John would be so manly, so possessive, he’d wipe away Sherlock’s tears and show him pleasures he’d never known existed.

Sherlock shook himself out of his thoughts. He had to save John! John, who had been wrestling this rabid bear for thirty minutes now, had scratches, each long mark accentuating his toned body in some way and bleeding only enough to show that he was so strong the bear’s six inch claws (a true specimen, most grizzlies only had 2-4 inch claws) did almost no damage to John Hamish Watson, the manliest man ever to exist. 

The bear was getting the upper hand, his teeth mere inches from John’s face. Sherlock cried in alarm again; he knew it distracted John but he was so overcome with fear he couldn’t help himself. He fumbled the weapon in his hands and the gun fell to the ground. It fired, despite not being modified in any way that would cause it to do that. Fate had intervened by pulling the trigger to save his beloved.

The bullet hit the bear right in the eye and he roared in anger. It charged at Sherlock and Sherlock screamed shrilly, fell to the ground and covered his eyes with his hands.

But the death blow didn’t come.

Sherlock looked up just in time to see John jump on the bear’s back and use his enormous arms to choke the bear. The bear struggled but John held fast despite the ratio of length of his arms to the girth of the bear’s neck. 

He was just that strong.

The bear fell, not just unconscious from lack of oxygen. No, it was completely dead.

John slid lithely off the bear’s back and the sun peeked out from behind a fluffy white cloud, illuminating John’s golden hair and gleaming off his every muscle.

“Are you ok?” he asked, his voice lower than Sherlock had ever heard. John had giggled once, his voice rather high pitched. All in all it was very off-putting and Sherlock was glad John wasn’t like that anymore.

“I- I think so,” Sherlock said. He shivered, he was still terrified and it was taking all his will power to remain upright once John pulled him to his feet. His knees were shaking like a newborn calf’s. 

Then John took Sherlock’s face in his hands and kissed him. Sherlock had never been kissed and his knees did give out.

John wrapped his arm around Sherlock’s waist and held him up, only breaking the kiss when he realized Sherlock was about to faint.

“Here,” John led him to the picnic table he’d built without using any tools in only an hour (and that included the time it had taken him to cut down the trees).

Sherlock sat shakily. He looked up at John and wiped his eyes.

“Thank you,” he said. But really, he was saying, “I love you.”

John towered over Sherlock and gently and chastely kissed him on the lips, half his mouth lifted at Sherlock’s blush.

“You’re welcome,” he husked raspily.

And Sherlock knew he was saying, “I love you,” too.

That’s when John leaned back, turning to get Sherlock some water - to provide for his mate - and Sherlock saw it.

John’s penis.

It was tiny! Microscopic! It was five and a half inches if he was generous! (And, of course, Sherlock measured cocks in inches. He measured everything threatening with the imperial system.) 

Dear God, it was AVERAGE!

Sherlock stared at it in horror before bursting into tears. He sobbed - and the sky, which had been clear before, turned stormy and wept with him.

John was not a real man.

Sherlock choked as he cried like he’d never cried before.

John tried to hide his shame but he knew it was too late.

“Sherlock, I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!”

But the words were meaningless.

“What can I do? How can I make this better?” John fell to his knees and begged Sherlock to just look at him. “We can work this out! It doesn’t have to be the end!”

They both knew it was a lie.

Sherlock stared into middle distance as John packed everything and left Sherlock to his sorrow. He knew Mycroft would know and come fetch him (Sherlock was far too helpless to get out of the woods on his own). He knew Sherlock would never want to see him again. John just wondered how he’d ever be able to find someone to love him with his condition.

Once John was gone all Sherlock’s deductions were gone with him. Sherlock hoped John would find someone to love him, despite his micropenis. Some women liked effeminate men, and Mary, the saint, had overlooked his shortcomings. Sherlock loved John and hoped he could find happiness with someone who could stand to look at him. Sherlock knew that wasn’t him. He needed a real man.

Their love would never come close to his and John’s; they were soulmates, but, alas, fate had come between them and their love wasn’t meant to be.

Maybe the fates would look down at their suffering and they’d be together in the next life.

Sherlock wiped his cheeks and held his head high. He would persevere. He would survive this. He was strong. He was independent! He didn’t need a man to complete him! He still had time to find someone to take care of him. Someone rugged, someone strong, someone handsome. Someone like John...

If only John were a real man.

A last lonely tear fell from Sherlock’s eye.

**Author's Note:**

> I would say I'm sorry, but I'm not. 
> 
> You can find me on [Twitter @GizmoTrinket221](https://twitter.com/gizmotrinket221) and on [Tumblr @TheArtOne](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/theartone)


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